Marian L. Thomas, reared in Chicago but lives with her biggest supporter—her husband and their spoiled but playful dog, Winston, in Atlanta, Georgia. Marian received her Bachelor's degree in Business Communication, graduating Magna Cum Laude. She is a loyal supporter of victims of abuse and has been featured in the Atlanta Skirt! Magazine as one of Atlanta's 9 to 5 Women in the Media Industry, in Black Pearls Magazine and CrossRoadsNews, a East Metro Atlanta paper.. Marian was recently featured by 11Alivenews.com in its Atlanta Reads April Events Alert.
She first awakened her desire to write while in her second year of high school. She began her writing debut as a Sports Editor and as a News Editor for a local Atlanta college paper. In 2009, the dream of becoming a published author was realized when she was able to publish her first title Color Me Jazzmyne.
She first awakened her desire to write while in her second year of high school. She began her writing debut as a Sports Editor and as a News Editor for a local Atlanta college paper. In 2009, the dream of becoming a published author was realized when she was able to publish her first title Color Me Jazzmyne.
Her debut title, Color Me Jazzmyne, went on to become an Amazon bestseller. Reaching Amazon's #1 spot in the Rhythm & Blues category, #2 in Inner-Child and #7 in Performance/Voice for the amazing melodious tones developed through the voice of her main character, Naya Monà. Color Me Jazzmyne was also ranked as one of the "Top 100 Books" - 1st Qtr 2010 by the Sankofa Literary Society Review.
In Color Me Jazzmyne and the newly released My Father’s Colors, Marian writes with a box full of colors in her head. Using the analogy of a crayon box to describe the struggles and journeys of women, has become her literary trademark. Readers have been captivated by her emotional appeal and her flare for reality that continues to be weaved within the pages of her books.
Readers of My Father's Colors and Color Me Jazzmyne have been captivated by the depth of the emotional journey that the books takes them on. Both books dig deep into what it takes for women to embrace who they are no matter what size, color, educational background or social status. Sisters will learn to love themselves despite what society says or the voices that surround them!
Join top-selling author Marian L. Thomas as she takes you through the captivating pages of My Father’s Colors. The book is guaranteed to make you laugh, cry and get caught in the drama-filled story of a woman’s journey of self-discovery!
In Color Me Jazzmyne and the newly released My Father’s Colors, Marian writes with a box full of colors in her head. Using the analogy of a crayon box to describe the struggles and journeys of women, has become her literary trademark. Readers have been captivated by her emotional appeal and her flare for reality that continues to be weaved within the pages of her books.
Readers of My Father's Colors and Color Me Jazzmyne have been captivated by the depth of the emotional journey that the books takes them on. Both books dig deep into what it takes for women to embrace who they are no matter what size, color, educational background or social status. Sisters will learn to love themselves despite what society says or the voices that surround them!
Join top-selling author Marian L. Thomas as she takes you through the captivating pages of My Father’s Colors. The book is guaranteed to make you laugh, cry and get caught in the drama-filled story of a woman’s journey of self-discovery!
Visit Marian's website today at: http://www.marianlthomas.com. Here readers can read about her books, watch book trailers, read reviews, and view her author's media kit. Book clubs can also schedule a personal visit from the website or contact her via at email: larrita@lbpublishingco.com.
Color Me Jazzmyne by Marian L. Thomas, available at Amazon.com
My Father's Colors by Marian L. Thomas, available at Amazon.com
Connect Marian L. Thomas Online
Email: larrita@lbpublishingco.com
Website: http://www.marianlthomas.com
Author's Blog: http://findingmycolorwithmlt.blogspot.com
L.B Publishing Skype for Bookclub Chats: 678-608-1401
My Father's Colors by Marian L. Thomas, available at Amazon.com
Connect Marian L. Thomas Online
Email: larrita@lbpublishingco.com
Website: http://www.marianlthomas.com
Author's Blog: http://findingmycolorwithmlt.blogspot.com
L.B Publishing Skype for Bookclub Chats: 678-608-1401
Excerpt from My Father's Colors
Join top-selling author Marian L. Thomas as she takes you through the captivating pages of My Father’s Colors. The book is guaranteed to make you laugh, cry and get caught in the drama-filled story of a woman’s journey of self-discovery! Please read the featured excerpt from My Father's Colors - The Drama-Filled Journey of Naya Monà Continues, sequel to Color Me Jazzmyne, also by Marian L. Thomas.
Color Me Jazzmyne Book Excerpt, go here.
Read Chapters 1-3 and give us your opinion.
ISBN-10: 0615270670; ISBN-13: 978-061527067
My Father's Colors: The Drama-Filled Journey
of Naya Mona Continues
by Marian L. Thomas, L. B. Publishing
ISBN-10: 0615409415; ISBN-13: 9780615409412
**Honesty in His Touch**
"Have you tried using a tape recorder?"
"A what?"
"A tape recorder."
"I know that I'm not paying you a thousand bucks an hour for you to tell me to start talking to myself!"
"I'm not telling you to talk to yourself. I'm telling you to express yourself. Using a tape recorder will give you the ability to capture your feelings when you are, in fact, having them instead of keeping them bottled up inside."
The two women sat in silence for what seemed to be another hour. Naya left her doctor's office that day, knowing that she would never return. A tape recorder, she thought, I'm not the only one who needs to be lying on someone’s couch. Two months later, however, she found herself struggling to take her doctor's advice.
"Okay tape recorder, it's just you and me. I'm expressing myself so you had better listen."
"Once-upon-a-time I was a little girl who loved my father. That fairytale stopped at the tender age of thirteen. I'm still trying to get back to that moment, back to the time when his touch was innocent. For the past thirty-seven years, I've been tracking it down, running after it and yet, here I am. One could say that I'm complaining; in some ways, I know my heart is."
"It's four o’clock in the morning, my diary in hand, pen dangling on the tip of my fingers. Thoughts lingering as my mind searches for the right words to write down on a piece of paper that is bounded rather tightly to a book that will probably never be read by anyone other than me. Eyes are heavy. Heart beating underneath a gown that I've decided to wear for the first time. I've been sitting here for five minutes scribbling down absolutely nothing and saying absolutely nothing. This is crazy."
Maybe I should pretend like I'm still in the doctor's office. What would she do at this point? She would probably ask me something stupid like—how do I feel? I would say something like, "how do I feel about what?,” just to get some type of reaction out of her. It's a game I'd play until I look at the clock and realize that I'm paying to watch her sit in her chair, watching me like I am crazy, which by the way is why I'd be sitting in her office in the first place at a thousand bucks an hour.
Okay, let's try again.
"So Naya, how do you feel? Let's see. Being honest with myself, I'd say that right now I feel frustrated, to the utmost degree. Humiliated, just a little. Why you ask? Well, because in the end I'm still talking to me. How is that for feelings!"
Horrible, girl. Just horrible and you know it.
No matter how she tried to escape it, sadness swept through her like the chill in New York's air on a crisp Saturday morning. She leaned her head back and stared at the tape recorder. I need help. Naya found herself glancing at her husband, watching him sleep and whispering within… How I love this man. She stroked the side of his face. Just touching him soothed her, calmed her mind and helped her to focus. Just that simple action, mixed with her emotions, helped her to find her voice. Feel her strength. It's funny how a man can give you both.
The tape recorder is still going although she puts the diary down. She finds herself whispering the words her hands wouldn't allow her to write.
Here beside me lay not just a husband but also a love, A friend and an intimate companion.
He has given me what was taken away, just as he promised Honesty in his touch. In his touch I found nothing meant to hurt me Or destroy the “once upon a time” life that every child lies in their bed and dreams about. Just honesty in his touch. Touch. Touch.
She's feeling it now. Her head is swaying, her fingers, gently snapping as she envisions the band playing in the background. There it is, the music mixing with her vocals.
In his touch there is more than a fairytale;
There is more than a dream.
In his touch there is a reality
That captures me
Wraps me in the essence of its embrace
Each and every day.
Yes, a touch can mean so much.
I feel honesty in his touch.
The emotions in his hand.
Feels like butter, baby
Smooth.
Do you feel that?
I can feel that…
I can feel the
The honesty in his touch.
Her voice getting slightly higher. Bed moving just a little.
I want to do it again,
Touch ever so gently
The softness of your skin
I feel myself restraining.
Too many moments like these
Have found me wrapped up in your arms
Allowing your heartbeat to rock me back to sleep again.
Can you feel that?
I can feel that
Sweet honesty.
The honesty in his touch.
Oh baby. Sweet.
Sweet honestly
The honesty in his touch.
He moves. Naya stops. Man that felt good. She glances at the clock; it's four-thirty. How I wish I could close my eyes and just sing myself into a sleep filled with dreams. "I'm too old for that it seems."
She reached for the tape recorder. Time to turn you off. Now what do I do? What you always do? Don't kid yourself. Pulling the covers off, she slid quietly out of bed and tiptoed over to the bedroom door. Stomach held tightly in, breath about to leave her as she reached for the knob. For a moment, she stands and listens.
She was watching for any moment, a fringe of hope. A slight jerk of the hand, a move of the head. There was nothing but silence. She didn't want to admit that her heart had wanted him to wake up.
It had wanted to scream that she needed to be rescued once again from the inevitable, the reality that has been a part of her ever since she first read the letter.
She felt the air releasing as her stomach came back to normal; it was obvious that this time she would be on her own. Disappointment set in the pit of her kidneys; it was probably for the best. I can’t keep running to him, she said to herself a couple of times. It didn't stop her from glancing once more, just to be sure as she reached and placed the tape recorder in her pocket.
Feeling a fringe of confidence building inside of her, she glides out into the foyer, closing the door behind her as if it were never opened. As she moves in the darkness she can feel the lushness of the carpet gracing her feet and easing her steps. Her mind doesn’t stop to consider where she's going; her heart already knew the answer. Although the scene was more than familiar, she could still feel the anticipation beating within her.
Down the hall, turning just to the left she found herself standing in front of her office door. Her nerves tapping her on the shoulders. Her hands uneasy as she reached for the solid brass handle, her grip soft but with purpose. Relax girl, she whispered. Inside, she flips on the light, as if she expected something to be different. Her eyes scan a room she has been in a thousand times. Reaching inside her desk drawer, she grabs hold of it. It’s still here. Isn’t it always? Wouldn't it be nice if just for a moment, it didn't exist? So nice.
Look at me, holding it in my hand. I want to scream; here I am life, once again I'm going to sit down on my white leather sofa and stare at a yellow envelope that is about fifteen years old. How many times can I continue to do this? Do you have an answer for me, life?
Life, it seems is out of responses today; did I really expect one? It would have been nice.
Naya pulls out the tape recorder and places it on the sofa table.
Here I go, more moments of expression.
She allows herself to go back to that day. Back to that moment when she stood outside his penthouse home, upon his doorstep and reached out her hand to a man who couldn’t find the nerve to hand her a letter that would tell her where her son was.
I can still feel the anger I felt that day, I can still hear my heart pumping at a thousand beats as I had come to the realization that the beast, my Father that is, sent his butler to deliver the letter to me. He couldn’t even come to the door himself. What a coward! I still remember Chris and me running down the steps like fools, envelope in hand, stopping only for a moment to see him standing at the window watching us. I remember not caring. How I wish that today, at this moment, I still didn’t.
Wouldn't that be nice? Better, perhaps. It would be perfect. She looks down. Upon this same sofa, Chris and I sat, staring at this same envelope.
The scene was still vivid in her mind. Her hands responded by gliding over the words “To my daughter, Naya Mona” that were written on the outside of the envelope. Even with her eyes closed she could trace each letter, envision each stroke of a ‘T’, and remember each dot of an ‘I’
"So now how do you feel?" She asks herself. "I admit that opening this envelope tonight is like opening my father’s colors. Although he’s been dead for five years now, I still refer to him as ‘The beast,’ I am convinced that I will never stop thinking that way about him. Why? Because I hate him. Plain and simple. Those are my feelings; those are my thoughts. My expressions. I wish I could change them, but I can't.
Naya placed the letter in her lap and just sit there trying to imagine what it would have been like if it didn’t exist. She knew that some might feel that the years that had gone by should have given her heart the time it needed to heal. She wondered if they had ever had their fairy-tale of a childhood ripped away from them, stolen in the blink of a moment and then left alone in a world of realities that can never forget the past. This was as far as she had gotten, still trying to push past the pain. Always it seemed she found herself doing just as she was doing now, allowing that letter to sit upon her lap, unable to stretch out the paper enough to gaze her eyes once again upon words that always left her wanting more than answers.
She thought of her son.
"Ten years ago I sat in this office and handed this same blue inked letter to him. I, for the very first time, gazed upon the whiteness of his skin, looked into the depth of blue eyes and realized that the color of snow had sunk deep into the veins of my son. How hard it was for me then. I had to sit here and hear my son read the words of the beast, Jonathan Creek. My never-to-be-again father. But that was not the worst part of that day. I had to be the one to tell him that the beast was also his father. How do you tell your son, one whom you never got a chance to name, something like that? How? I wish the beast could have been there; I would have made him do it! Ask me again why I hate him."
The beast was a white man with broad shoulders and a barely-get-by sort of attitude in life. There was a moment in her life, a moment that went by like the flicker of a candle, when she could recall being happy just to be near him.
"He was a coward, nothing but! I remember how I felt the moment I read in that letter that his parents had given my son the name Jonathan. I cried. No, I screamed and I threw things. How could they give my son that name, knowing what he did? They knew and still.
"I have strong feelings for them as well, and it isn't love, that much I can tell you."
Calm down girl. I really wish I could. She knew if Chris were with her right now, he would be whispering some of his smooth words into her ears, soothing her heart. She stared at the letter again, her tears falling upon it. She didn't care.
"I remember watching Jonathan, my son, that day. I remember listening to each sentence that fell off his lips and feeling like they were ripping at my insides, shredding my bones. No mother should see what I saw. Pain and agony upon their child's face. Feeling like there was nothing you could do as they struggled to put the pieces of their life together. To him, it was like a puzzle that never seemed to fit. I was a mother that never wanted him, one that never cared. "
"Back then, when we first met, I ached from wanting to scream out from the rooftops that I did care, that I did love him and that I had always wanted him. For a time, he didn't want to hear it."
How long I waited to be more than a once-upon-a-time mother to a once-upon-a-time son. It had taken a week just to hear the word—mother— fall off his lips. Even now as I think about it, I wish I could go back and capture that moment, lock it up in a bottle and place it upon my heart. It felt so good. No one understands that, not even that crazy doctor at a thousand bucks an hour.
I'd say the breaking point for us came when it was discovered that he really wasn’t my father’s son. He only had the beast's name. It was like sunshine on a cold and miserable day when I learned that. I, Naya, had been raped by another man as I came home from school one day. It's a story I had to tell to my son, a moment in my life that I had to relive; I'm certainly not about to do it here, not again. Reliving what the beast did to me is more than enough. For now.
"I'm still holding this letter, unfolded. I find my present life staring me in the face; it's enough to fringe a smile. I need one right about now. Just a tiny one. What makes me smile? I see in my mind’s eye, pictures of my husband and me, my son and his wife, my grandchildren. They are smiles clouding out the skeletons in my closet."
Naya allows the tears to flow now. She clicks off the tape recorder and pulls her knees into her chest, her thick hazel-brown hair, hanging off the side of her shoulder. She finds a small amount of comfort in the confines of an old pillow that she won't allow her staff to throw away.
Silence and tears appear to be at war inside of her. It is a battle she has never won. She dared not imagine that today would be any different. But it was. She turned the tape recorder to the on position. She pretended like she was on stage, performing for the walls, the chandelier and even the pictures that held her memories. Here I go again, she thought.
"I 'am going to read it this time, out loud, although I feel that I could recite every word, even in my sleep if I were asked about it in a dream. Here's a piece of reality, it really doesn't matter, my eyes could be open or closed, for me, the effect is the same. The anger of it all still comes rushing through me. But not just anger, there are times that I feel lost, trapped inside darkness and even downright loneliness. It's because of these feelings that I have never allowed myself to get past the nightmare and look deeper into the meaning. I admit that. Today, however, seems different somehow. I wish I could explain why but I just can’t."
"Doesn't matter anyway. Here I go; I know my hands are moving, I feel my heart pounding. In my mind I'm telling myself to go slow. I can feel myself unfolding the paper and stretching it out, okay, now just open your eyes, girl, and read."
To my daughter Naya…..
(continued)
Ready for More? Click Here to Purchase the Paperback or Hardcover- My Father's Colors-The Drama-Filled Journey of Naya Monà Continues. Kindle? We got you! Click Here to Download today!
© 2011 All rights reserved. Book excerpt reprinted by permission of the author, Marian L. Thomas. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author's written permission. Copyright infringement is a serious offense. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only. Share a link to this page or the author's website if you really like this sneak peek.
My Father's Colors: The Drama-Filled Journey of Naya Mona Continues
by Marian L. Thomas, L. B. PublishingISBN-10: 0615409415
ISBN-13: 9780615409412
I feel honesty in his touch.
The emotions in his hand.
Feels like butter, baby
Smooth.
Do you feel that?
I can feel that…
I can feel the
The honesty in his touch.
Her voice getting slightly higher. Bed moving just a little.
I want to do it again,
Touch ever so gently
The softness of your skin
I feel myself restraining.
Too many moments like these
Have found me wrapped up in your arms
Allowing your heartbeat to rock me back to sleep again.
Can you feel that?
I can feel that
Sweet honesty.
The honesty in his touch.
Oh baby. Sweet.
Sweet honestly
The honesty in his touch.
He moves. Naya stops. Man that felt good. She glances at the clock; it's four-thirty. How I wish I could close my eyes and just sing myself into a sleep filled with dreams. "I'm too old for that it seems."
She reached for the tape recorder. Time to turn you off. Now what do I do? What you always do? Don't kid yourself. Pulling the covers off, she slid quietly out of bed and tiptoed over to the bedroom door. Stomach held tightly in, breath about to leave her as she reached for the knob. For a moment, she stands and listens.
She was watching for any moment, a fringe of hope. A slight jerk of the hand, a move of the head. There was nothing but silence. She didn't want to admit that her heart had wanted him to wake up.
It had wanted to scream that she needed to be rescued once again from the inevitable, the reality that has been a part of her ever since she first read the letter.
She felt the air releasing as her stomach came back to normal; it was obvious that this time she would be on her own. Disappointment set in the pit of her kidneys; it was probably for the best. I can’t keep running to him, she said to herself a couple of times. It didn't stop her from glancing once more, just to be sure as she reached and placed the tape recorder in her pocket.
Feeling a fringe of confidence building inside of her, she glides out into the foyer, closing the door behind her as if it were never opened. As she moves in the darkness she can feel the lushness of the carpet gracing her feet and easing her steps. Her mind doesn’t stop to consider where she's going; her heart already knew the answer. Although the scene was more than familiar, she could still feel the anticipation beating within her.
Down the hall, turning just to the left she found herself standing in front of her office door. Her nerves tapping her on the shoulders. Her hands uneasy as she reached for the solid brass handle, her grip soft but with purpose. Relax girl, she whispered. Inside, she flips on the light, as if she expected something to be different. Her eyes scan a room she has been in a thousand times. Reaching inside her desk drawer, she grabs hold of it. It’s still here. Isn’t it always? Wouldn't it be nice if just for a moment, it didn't exist? So nice.
Look at me, holding it in my hand. I want to scream; here I am life, once again I'm going to sit down on my white leather sofa and stare at a yellow envelope that is about fifteen years old. How many times can I continue to do this? Do you have an answer for me, life?
Life, it seems is out of responses today; did I really expect one? It would have been nice.
Naya pulls out the tape recorder and places it on the sofa table.
Here I go, more moments of expression.
She allows herself to go back to that day. Back to that moment when she stood outside his penthouse home, upon his doorstep and reached out her hand to a man who couldn’t find the nerve to hand her a letter that would tell her where her son was.
I can still feel the anger I felt that day, I can still hear my heart pumping at a thousand beats as I had come to the realization that the beast, my Father that is, sent his butler to deliver the letter to me. He couldn’t even come to the door himself. What a coward! I still remember Chris and me running down the steps like fools, envelope in hand, stopping only for a moment to see him standing at the window watching us. I remember not caring. How I wish that today, at this moment, I still didn’t.
Wouldn't that be nice? Better, perhaps. It would be perfect. She looks down. Upon this same sofa, Chris and I sat, staring at this same envelope.
The scene was still vivid in her mind. Her hands responded by gliding over the words “To my daughter, Naya Mona” that were written on the outside of the envelope. Even with her eyes closed she could trace each letter, envision each stroke of a ‘T’, and remember each dot of an ‘I’
"So now how do you feel?" She asks herself. "I admit that opening this envelope tonight is like opening my father’s colors. Although he’s been dead for five years now, I still refer to him as ‘The beast,’ I am convinced that I will never stop thinking that way about him. Why? Because I hate him. Plain and simple. Those are my feelings; those are my thoughts. My expressions. I wish I could change them, but I can't.
Naya placed the letter in her lap and just sit there trying to imagine what it would have been like if it didn’t exist. She knew that some might feel that the years that had gone by should have given her heart the time it needed to heal. She wondered if they had ever had their fairy-tale of a childhood ripped away from them, stolen in the blink of a moment and then left alone in a world of realities that can never forget the past. This was as far as she had gotten, still trying to push past the pain. Always it seemed she found herself doing just as she was doing now, allowing that letter to sit upon her lap, unable to stretch out the paper enough to gaze her eyes once again upon words that always left her wanting more than answers.
She thought of her son.
"Ten years ago I sat in this office and handed this same blue inked letter to him. I, for the very first time, gazed upon the whiteness of his skin, looked into the depth of blue eyes and realized that the color of snow had sunk deep into the veins of my son. How hard it was for me then. I had to sit here and hear my son read the words of the beast, Jonathan Creek. My never-to-be-again father. But that was not the worst part of that day. I had to be the one to tell him that the beast was also his father. How do you tell your son, one whom you never got a chance to name, something like that? How? I wish the beast could have been there; I would have made him do it! Ask me again why I hate him."
The beast was a white man with broad shoulders and a barely-get-by sort of attitude in life. There was a moment in her life, a moment that went by like the flicker of a candle, when she could recall being happy just to be near him.
"He was a coward, nothing but! I remember how I felt the moment I read in that letter that his parents had given my son the name Jonathan. I cried. No, I screamed and I threw things. How could they give my son that name, knowing what he did? They knew and still.
"I have strong feelings for them as well, and it isn't love, that much I can tell you."
Calm down girl. I really wish I could. She knew if Chris were with her right now, he would be whispering some of his smooth words into her ears, soothing her heart. She stared at the letter again, her tears falling upon it. She didn't care.
"I remember watching Jonathan, my son, that day. I remember listening to each sentence that fell off his lips and feeling like they were ripping at my insides, shredding my bones. No mother should see what I saw. Pain and agony upon their child's face. Feeling like there was nothing you could do as they struggled to put the pieces of their life together. To him, it was like a puzzle that never seemed to fit. I was a mother that never wanted him, one that never cared. "
"Back then, when we first met, I ached from wanting to scream out from the rooftops that I did care, that I did love him and that I had always wanted him. For a time, he didn't want to hear it."
How long I waited to be more than a once-upon-a-time mother to a once-upon-a-time son. It had taken a week just to hear the word—mother— fall off his lips. Even now as I think about it, I wish I could go back and capture that moment, lock it up in a bottle and place it upon my heart. It felt so good. No one understands that, not even that crazy doctor at a thousand bucks an hour.
I'd say the breaking point for us came when it was discovered that he really wasn’t my father’s son. He only had the beast's name. It was like sunshine on a cold and miserable day when I learned that. I, Naya, had been raped by another man as I came home from school one day. It's a story I had to tell to my son, a moment in my life that I had to relive; I'm certainly not about to do it here, not again. Reliving what the beast did to me is more than enough. For now.
"I'm still holding this letter, unfolded. I find my present life staring me in the face; it's enough to fringe a smile. I need one right about now. Just a tiny one. What makes me smile? I see in my mind’s eye, pictures of my husband and me, my son and his wife, my grandchildren. They are smiles clouding out the skeletons in my closet."
Naya allows the tears to flow now. She clicks off the tape recorder and pulls her knees into her chest, her thick hazel-brown hair, hanging off the side of her shoulder. She finds a small amount of comfort in the confines of an old pillow that she won't allow her staff to throw away.
Silence and tears appear to be at war inside of her. It is a battle she has never won. She dared not imagine that today would be any different. But it was. She turned the tape recorder to the on position. She pretended like she was on stage, performing for the walls, the chandelier and even the pictures that held her memories. Here I go again, she thought.
"I 'am going to read it this time, out loud, although I feel that I could recite every word, even in my sleep if I were asked about it in a dream. Here's a piece of reality, it really doesn't matter, my eyes could be open or closed, for me, the effect is the same. The anger of it all still comes rushing through me. But not just anger, there are times that I feel lost, trapped inside darkness and even downright loneliness. It's because of these feelings that I have never allowed myself to get past the nightmare and look deeper into the meaning. I admit that. Today, however, seems different somehow. I wish I could explain why but I just can’t."
"Doesn't matter anyway. Here I go; I know my hands are moving, I feel my heart pounding. In my mind I'm telling myself to go slow. I can feel myself unfolding the paper and stretching it out, okay, now just open your eyes, girl, and read."
To my daughter Naya…..
(continued)
Ready for More? Click Here to Purchase the Paperback or Hardcover- My Father's Colors-The Drama-Filled Journey of Naya Monà Continues. Kindle? We got you! Click Here to Download today!
© 2011 All rights reserved. Book excerpt reprinted by permission of the author, Marian L. Thomas. Do not reproduce, copy or use without the author's written permission. Copyright infringement is a serious offense. This excerpt is used for promotional purposes only. Share a link to this page or the author's website if you really like this sneak peek.
My Father's Colors: The Drama-Filled Journey of Naya Mona Continues
by Marian L. Thomas, L. B. PublishingISBN-10: 0615409415
ISBN-13: 9780615409412
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